Small Offerings
by Londonmage
Summary: Even the smallest offering may yet yield the greatest rewards.' A story from three perspectives. A Gondorian Guard, a seemingly fearless OC, and the Steward. Aragorn, Gandalf and Bergil make a appearance, too.


Authors Note: This is a story in three perspectives, book-verse, and the first two sections take place during the period thatDenethor is on the wall during the_Siege of Gondor,_while the third happens quite some time later.

Disclaimer: I'm not related to Tolkien in any way, I do not know him in any medium, andno moneyis being made. All of these thingsmake me sad.

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I wondered greatly at his even seeing the boy. When I had presented his request to the Steward, I had expected the Lord Denethor to simply deny it at once. I had never dreamed of him allowing the boy to make his appeal. Now at length had they stood thusly, Steward at the wall, glancing now and then out to the field, and boy before him careful and close in both words and the expression of his face, each daring the other to speak, the one defiant, the other waiting for an answer to at least one question.

'How old are you, boy?' Denethor asked, weary of questions left unanswered and defiant glares.

The boy continued his bold stare, eyes ablaze, mouth silent.

A sigh sailed heavily from the Lord's lips. I gazed at the boy again: he couldn't have possibly been a day past his fifteenth year.

'Your name then, boy,' the Steward offered after a moment, and I could see him tiring of this contest in the impatient glances he spared to the Pelennor.

'If you answer none of my questions I cannot help you.' The Steward's voice was firm.

'It seems to me that neither of these details should be deciding factors in whether or not a man may fight, my lord.' I wondered at his insolence as well as the exactness of his speech for his cloth was poor, yet his words noble. Denethor's eyes widened and he set his jaw.

'You are no man, you scarce look a day past thirteen. War is no place for children, boy.'

He made no move to speak and I wondered when the Lord's patience would finally be spent.

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I had no desire to send anyone else to war this day but realized as any great Lord should, that my desire really made no difference. I spared another glance at the field before me, fire dotting the browned and broken ground that I could still remember flowing green in the heat of summer last. I sighed and turned back once more. The boy seemed brave, indeed he was insolent and proud, too bold, perhaps, for his own good.

'Guards,' I said wearily, turning, 'Take him to the Houses, it is too late for him to join the others to evacuate, but he should be safe there, at least relatively.' I heard the guards behind me make to lead him away when his sudden statement stopped them.

'I am no man in years perhaps, but if I am old enough to see both my brother and father fall, one after the other and lay dead and broken in their graves and still stand boldly here before you, then with all due respect, sir, I am old enough to march to battle.'

My guards were not the only ones stilled by his words. I turned to face him again, now reading clearly the heartache written upon his face, placing his boldness in a new light that turned his insolence into something that looked and felt more like a courage far beyond his years. The guards looked at me questioningly and I made a motion for them to wait.

Guilt tugged at me. Memories long banished, a past I wished forgotten surged to the surface of my mind. Raven hair, storm-sea eyes, small hands on my own, pleading eyes boring up at me. I almost smiled, but grief was still a knife plunging through me even now.

This boy did not deserve death, but neither did he deserve to be idly pushed aside.

'I've no reason not to fight, sir' His voice cracked the air.

'Well, boy, that alone is certainly not a reason to.'

He bowed his head, but only for a moment before meeting my gaze squarely and quietly stating, 'I am thirteen years of age, sir and my name is Angalad, son of Baranor.' Though his words were low they were anything but soft, and were filled with pride.

I looked upon him once more, considering. His life may be taken whether or not he rode to war this day, so why should he not have a chance to defend his country, avenge his father and brother? But I quickly dismissed that thought.

_No_._ Small though it may be, hope there still burns, in some hearts, and he is yet a child. Too much blood already has been spilt and more yet to come._

'I am sorry, but though I commend you for your courage, I will not send you out to fight. There is help enough you can give with the healers and if it indeed be your time for death or great deeds, fear not, in times as these, if they be your fate, they will seek you out.'

The guards led him and his pleading eyes away and I turned my eyes once more to the field.

_Death enough there will be in this day and in the days ahead. _Blood enough had already been spilt for this madness, more than enough, I deemed and yet, still never enough it would seem to stem the raging tide of our enemiesLoss enough we had already suffered, losing many who sacrificed themselves to defend the pieces still left of ancient Numenor, those who had given their lives to protect her still.

_But sacrifice out of place and out of turn is in the end empty and meaningless. Blood spilled is life lost. Without a people left to defend, left to preserve, war will make hollow corpses of us all. _

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'Papa, tell me the story of your part in the Great Battle!'

'Not tonight, little one,' I smiled down at my son and ruffled his hair. 'It is late, and you need to sleep. Besides, you have heard it a thousand times.'

'So?' he offered, shrugging, 'Mama says you never tire of bragging.'

'Oh really?' I replied. He nodded and pulled the covers to his chest, giving me a look somewhere between pout and scowl. I could not help but change my mind. I sighed and sat heavily on the covers and his smile brightened, knowing he had won.

'The armies were marching upon us and Steward Faramir was then but the Captain-General and was bravely defending the outer walls and fighting his way back to the city with his men. I had stood for hours, watching the enemies march closer and closer, shivering and afraid.'

He scoffed. 'You weren't really afraid, were you?'

I smiled and nodded. 'Terrified. But I could not stand and do nothing so I presented myself to the Tower Guard and asked to speak directly to the Steward to plead with him that I may go to war with the soldiers. I was very foolish then.' My son giggled, and I turned to where my wife stood in the doorway, nodding wholeheartedly.

'You are still,' she offered, grinning. I playfully scowled at her before returning to my tale.

'I half expected him to deny my request from the start, not even speak to me—I was only a boy after all—but he saw me and even, I daresay, considered my request, though in the end he denied it and sent me with the guards as my escort to the Houses of Healing.'

'And you were angry, weren't you Papa?'

'Yes, yes I was. I sulked about the House for quite some time. All through that day, and into the night, and the next day, and the next night, and the next day, careful always to keep out of the way of healers, all of which were rushing about, seeing to all the wounded for there were many. And I longed to go out to the battle. I longed to go a fight and maybe find a glorious end. And then the whispers began, great names and lords were lying near death and the healers were frantic for these and many others had succumbed to the Black Shadow and wandered deep, lost in cold silence or else in fever.'

His eyes widened, as they always did near this part of the tale and a soft smile flitted across my face.

'Then came the wizard, white robes billowing behind him, staff clicking against the floor as he walked. He nearly knocked me over the first time I saw him. He moved in and out of the rooms, worry ever deepening on his face and I watched him in silence from the shadows. Then—'

'Then came the King!' my son finished for me, eyes wide and excited. I smiled softly and nodded.

'Yes, Berethor, then came the King, though I did not recognize him then. He and the wizard spoke too quietly for me to eavesdrop without being obvious, and they were often in the company of other great lords whose names I did not know, but whose faces seemed to me both high and noble. And greatly troubled. And then the King asked for an herb that he might heal the wounded and the murmurs bubbled through the Houses that none knew where to find it.'

'Athelas,' Berethor breathed.

'Kingsfoil, aye, and when the name reached my ears I knew what I had to do. But I was afraid still, for these were men far above myself both in years and in nobility. Although I had faced the Lord and Steward of the realm only a few days before, my shame at being turned away had broken my arrogance, stolen my confidence, though courage still I found within.'

'But you were afraid! How could you be brave, too?' A question he had asked as many times as I had told the tale.

'Courage does not mean you are not shaking like a leaf in a thunder storm,' I began.

'It means you cling on to the branch that bears you as hard as you can,' we finished in unison. I smiled.

'I couldn't believe the Healers had none of this herb, for Father had ever kept some in a drawer at the back of his closet for soothing his headaches he had always said and I rushed home to retrieve it before I lost my resolve. I snuck past the guards with the help of a few mice I had found in the pantry and returned before I was missed. It was old and had been gathered since before Father had left on his final journey, but the young boy I gave it to said it would do since no other cure was there to be found.'

'And I waited, restless, wondering what had become of my offering. And then people began to gather at the doors of the Houses, hoping for a glimpse of this Elfstone, our would-be-king. Whispers grew that he had healed many with his magic herbs. And I, too, in wonder and in curiosity joined the crowd to catch a glimpse of this man. I caught a glimpse of the boy I had given the athelas to and he held my gaze for a moment and then smiled a soft smile before moving on. He carried two trays of food in his hands, one he brought to the table of the Lord Aragorn and set it before him. Before he left he moved closer to hear something the man had said and with a glance in my direction and soft reply, he made for the door, the other tray in his hand and I lie to you not when I say I never saw him again.'

'And then,' I paused.

'And then,' my son supplied, moving his voice to just above a whisper, '_He_ spoke to you.'

'Yes. And I will never forget his words. _Whatever fate or power contrived_ _to bring you and your herbs here on this day, let it be known your gift has saved many. Even the smallest offering may yet yield the greatest rewards._ And you know what, my son?'

'What?'

'He was right. I rued being denied the chance to seek a glorious end in battle, but in the end though it seemed a small enough deed at the time, a tiny offering, a few small leaves, old and drying, it became the richest gift. Great deeds disguised as simple, mundane, and even ignoble tasks were waiting for me and were it not for other minds, other powers far above my own, they would have stayed hidden in the dark.'

Berethor sighed and leaned back into his pillows, eyes closed, content, sleep getting the better of him.

'Papa, are you glad he didn't let you fight?' I smiled, tears gently pressing at the corners of my eyes.

'Yes,' I breathed as I leaned in to kiss his brow. And I truly was.

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